


breathe you in (like secondhand smoke)

by kagome_angel



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9927113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagome_angel/pseuds/kagome_angel
Summary: It’s always been way too easy to get lost in the push and pull of who and what they are when they are together, and this is no exception.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t help myself. Save me, someone. The title is inspired by Fall Out Boy’s Irresistible, specifically the line “You’re secondhand smoke, secondhand smoke, I breathe you in but honey I don’t know what you’re doing to me”.

This isn’t the first time they’ve met like this, and no matter what he would like to be able to attempt to tell himself (who does he think he could fool?), it won’t be the last. It’s become an irritatingly familiar pattern: smoke and fire and amber eyes and a Cheshire grin, a casual and cliché “Your place or mine?” breathed against lips, against skin, against clothing that’s in the way.

Sometimes it’s Munakata’s place. Sometimes it’s Mikoto’s. Sometimes it’s neither. Tonight they are in Mikoto’s bedroom, and isn’t it funny how currently, Munakata’s the only one on the bed and his patience is non-existent and Mikoto’s spouting nonsense (testing him), and funny isn’t actually what this is at all.

“Do your clansmen know that their king spends a great deal of his free time fucking the guy that he’s usually reprimanding for reckless acts?”

Munakata’s pretty sure that “sleeping with the not-quite enemy” falls somewhere under the category of reckless acts, but in this case, reprimand does nothing for either of them, so it’s a moot point, really, and about as ridiculous as the question the redhead has just asked him.

He feigns nonchalance, trying to bury his anticipation somewhere deep, where prying amber eyes cannot see and listening ears cannot hear. He fails spectacularly, he’s certain, but there is something to be said for effort. “Of course not,” he replies, eyes narrowing as Mikoto smirks. “Just as yours don’t know.”

“Touché.” Mikoto’s smirk becomes a grin, and yeah, Munakata’s definitely failed at that whole burying his anticipation thing; he can tell in the way his smile changes, all full of knowing and provocation. 

“You need to come here,” Munakata tells him, and it may sound like a mere suggestion, but there is a little bite to the words (and that’s the way they like it—a little danger with the fun, a little pain with the pleasure; they’re scarily good at it).

He doesn’t expect outright obedience, immediate acquiescence; it isn’t the Red King’s style and it isn’t Munakata’s either. So it comes as no surprise at all when Mikoto remains leaning against the wall, recalcitrant, lingering at the periphery and gazing at Munakata with so much fire in his eyes and a small smile playing on his lips.

“Need is such a strong word,” Mikoto murmurs, but he doesn’t budge, obviously choosing to wait for Munakata’s next move.

“It is,” Munakata agrees, smooth and even. And then: “Come here,” low and dangerous, full of promises which they both know Munakata will deliver.

Mikoto almost seems entirely unaffected, save for the telltale bulge at the front of his jeans and the way his lips part just slightly; Munakata’s body responds in kind, readily; he enjoys how Mikoto loves the thrill of the threat, almost-but-not-quite despises how much he himself appreciates Mikoto’s reactions.

The redhead unhurriedly pushes away from the wall and all but saunters over to Munakata, pausing when they are mere inches apart, nothing but clothing and electrically-charged air between them.

“Here?” he asks, but he’s already kneeling, fitting himself between Munakata’s legs; he’s already dealing with the belt, the button, the zipper, the fabric. 

“Here?” Mikoto asks again when his fingers are curled around Munakata’s freed erection and his mouth is achingly close, breath warm against already-heated and sensitive skin.

Munakata’s cock throbs as if answering the question with a resounding yes, and the Blue King wants to be pissed at the way his body reacts so readily, and utterly without his consent. He _wants_ to be pissed, but he can’t quite make himself get there.

He settles for something a little south of the mark, feigned nonchalance that he knows is wasted on the Red King, because they _know_ each other, there’s too much shit between them for him to play pretend and for it to actually work, but this is how and who they are, and this is how they work.

“It’ll do for now,” is his response, and he _almost_ fights the half-smirk that tugs at his lips, at least until Mikoto’s smirking too, but then his lips are parting and then there’s warmth and wetness circling his cock and Munakata’s way too busy fighting back his moan to worry about his facial expression.

It’s frustratingly amazing how, every time, he seems to forget how shockingly good Mikoto is at this—this play of lips and tongue and even teeth on sensitive, aching skin. Munakata’s biting his lip and Mikoto is looking up at him, watching him while he moves up and down, swirling his tongue over the head of Munakata’s erection, and the look in the redhead’s eyes is enough to make him throb and it’s enough to make him internally scramble to hold onto the last remaining threads of his already-fraying self-control.

Mikoto can do this to him, seemingly oh-so-easily. It’s weakness; it’s deplorable; it’s—

He sucks in a breath on another downward stroke, and his hands find purchase on Mikoto’s shoulders as he fights the urge to thrust his hips up, fingers twisting cloth and pulling, and oh, he’s going to have to take care of that shirt (and soon), because he wants (possibly needs) to feel the skin beneath, wants to mark it so that Mikoto will see it and feel it days later and remember where Munakata’s hands and mouth were, just as he’ll remember this days from now (no doubt at the most inopportune moment).

And isn’t it so like Suoh to barge in, uninvited.

His fingers card through red strands, briefly gentle, and then he grasps and he tugs, not enough to cause Mikoto to move, but enough to convey intention. Mikoto hums against and around his cock, sending another surprising jolt of pleasure crashing through him, and Munakata surrenders momentarily, his grip on Mikoto’s hair relaxing and then tightening a fraction of a second later.

“Enough,” he says, and he feels just the hint of teeth as Mikoto withdraws, their gazes locked the entire time, and Munakata wants to wipe that smug smirk off the Red King’s face.

He moves to do just that, tugging more insistently, making sure to cause a bit of a sting, and Mikoto obliges him fairly readily (surprisingly), smoothly rising and leaning in, and Munakata kisses him hard, holds him in place while he greedily swallows both Mikoto’s smirk and his soft groan.

Mikoto’s hands are moving now, pulling at Munakata’s shirt, and the kiss is broken long enough for the article of clothing to be removed and tossed aside, and then their mouths are moving together again, all desire and sin and need, and Mikoto’s on the bed with him now, semi-straddling him, hands roaming over bare skin, eager and insistent. 

Munakata slips a hand between them, teasingly brushing his fingers against the bulge at the front of Mikoto’s jeans, and it’s just enough to distract, just enough to make Mikoto groan and arch against him, no doubt seeking more contact, more pressure.

He enjoys seeing Suoh like this, all disheveled and wanting, and even a little vulnerable. He understands the allure of making another person unhinged like this, so he can’t get too pissed when Mikoto returns the favor and does the same thing to him (always, ever time, in every way possible). He smiles and this time he rubs a little harder and squeezes, and Mikoto makes a strangled sound against his mouth and retaliates with sharp teeth sinking into Munakata’s bottom lip, not quite hard enough to draw blood but almost, and it sends another sharp jolt of pleasure down Munakata’s spine, making him reflexively move his fingers and—

The sound that works its way out from Mikoto’s throat makes his breath hitch, and in the next moment he’s pulling the redhead closer, hands making deft work of the jeans and boxers that are keeping him from touching naked skin.

Mikoto is wriggling against him and there’s fabric and shifting and awkwardness for all of two seconds until Mikoto’s boots hit the floor, jeans and boxers rapidly following, and the next time he moves, it’s pelvis against pelvis, a slow grind that makes Munakata moan and cling and grasp at the shirt that Mikoto’s somehow still wearing.

“Off,” Munakata tells him, voice husky, rough with desire. He wants their positions reversed, wants Mikoto beneath him, panting and arching and begging, but Mikoto draws back, raising an eyebrow and batting Munakata’s hands away.

“Off,” Mikoto parrots, hands now on Munakata’s hips, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers and tugging.

His jeans are already halfway down his hips thanks to Mikoto’s earlier ministrations, and it’s easy enough to kick his shoes off and lean back; it’s easy enough to let the redhead take care of the rest, and only after Munakata is naked does Mikoto remove his shirt (of course, because he’s a stubborn asshole, and Munakata informs him of it, but Mikoto looks strangely pleased about the insult, a smile playing on his lips).

“Yeah,” Mikoto murmurs, leaning over Munakata, still smiling, “but that’s what keeps me interesting.”

“Something like that,” Munakata snorts, shoving Mikoto down onto the mattress and hovering over him, heat buzzing through him at the look in those damn eyes (again). That gaze alone could set a million fires within him—he knows better now that to ever think otherwise, but it doesn’t mean that he has to just quietly accept it, either.

“What’ll you do with me now?” Mikoto asks, and Munakata knows it’s meant to tease, to taunt, but the words come out all rough and affected. There’s nothing between them, nothing to keep their skin from touching, and when Munakata rolls his hips, Mikoto rocks up to meet him, eyes squeezing shut and nails digging sharply into Munakata’s back.

There’s another dizzying, intoxicating rush of pleasure at the sight and the feel of him, and then Munakata’s reaching for the top drawer of the nightstand, fumbling for the tube of lubricant he knows he’ll find there.

Once he’s retrieved it, he works his way down Mikoto’s body, kissing, licking, biting, until he’s where he wants to be (for now). He unscrews the cap and squeezes a generous amount of the lubricant onto his fingers, gazing at Mikoto pointedly. “I’m pretty sure you know what I’m about to do with you,” he murmurs, nearly smiling at the way Mikoto subtly shifts, his legs falling open a little more.

“Yes,” Mikoto breathes, and Munakata isn’t sure if the act of licking his lips is involuntary or not, but he enjoys watching it.

His right hand dips down, fingers brushing against the entrance that he seeks; it’s all the warning he gives Mikoto before two fingers push in deep. He twists his wrist, mouth going dry at the throaty moan that slips past Mikoto’s slightly-parted lips.

The fingers of his left hand curl around Mikoto’s length, and the stroke of his hand is just as rough as the push and press of his fingers, but the sounds Mikoto makes in response aren’t even remotely signals that he wants or needs Munakata to slow down, to pause. 

So he doesn’t.

Three fingers now, pushing in and curling, and Mikoto’s got his head tossed back, mouth open, eyes closed, hops shoving down onto Munakata’s fingers and then thrusting up into his fist. Munakata thumbs the head of Mikoto’s cock—an act of appreciation, and feels Mikoto’s cock twitch in response.

“Tell me what you want, Suoh,” he commands, brushing his fingers against that spot that makes Mikoto whimper and tremble. “Tell me what you need.”

He wants to hear the Red King say it, wants to have him at his mercy, just as much as he himself is at Mikoto’s mercy, even though he would never admit it out loud.

“Like you don’t fucking know,” Mikoto bites out, glaring at him, and if looks could incinerate….

(Well, to be fair, they do, in a certain way.)

Another upward stroke of his left hand and Mikoto clenches around his fingers; he imagines the Red King clenching like that around him and he release an unconscious little moan, his own length throbbing with anticipation.

The look in Mikoto’s eyes changes abruptly, and it’s darker, almost dangerous. The words that he says are almost a growl: “Fuck me, Reisi. That’s what I want, and what you want, so what the hell are you keeping the both of us waiting for?”

_Shit_. It’s overwhelmingly erotic, the way Mikoto says it, the way he looks at Munakata, as if daring to give him anything less than a roaring affirmative.

One last curl of his fingers, one last squeeze of his hand, and then Munakata is withdrawing, shifting to slide himself between Mikoto’s legs, which readily move to accommodate him. Mikoto sighs, perhaps at the loss of contact, but Munakata doesn’t make him wait (doesn’t make either of them wait) long. He grabs the lube again with hands that are surprisingly shaky and he slicks himself up, momentarily grimacing at the coolness of it on his skin.

But then he’s angling himself and pressing in, and the heat of Mikoto’s body, the tightness, has him moaning before he’s even fully inside.

There’s a brief pause once he is, a quick scan of Mikoto’s facial features, and the Red King is all heat and motion, legs coming up to lock around Munakata’s waist as he breathes out, “Well?”

It’s enough to tip the scales, enough to make him pull back and then shove forward again, and the guttural sound that Mikoto makes is a heady encouragement. It’s always been way too fucking easy to get lost in the push and pull of who and what they are when they are together, and this is no exception. It’s a bad idea, and that is one hell of an understatement—perhaps it’s the worst idea he’s ever had, not that that’s ever stopped him before (unstoppable forces and immovable objects and all that). He’s ignored every single flashing warning sign when it comes to the Red King, and he doesn’t see that changing anytime in the future, and he’s made peace with that to some degree.

He finds a rhythm quickly, and it’s rough and exactly what both of them need, and when Mikoto slips a hand between their bodies to stroke himself, Munakata can’t help but watch, even if only for a second (it’s all he’ll allow himself, because he doesn’t want this to end quite so fast, and it will if he keeps his gaze fixed on the motions of Mikoto’s hand).

He can feel the need to climax building low in his belly, can feel it in Mikoto too, in the way he clenches around him, in the way his right hand picks up speed, in the way the nails of his left hand dig into Munakata’s skin, the brief flash of pain a counterpoint to all the pleasure, and it only serves to make Munakata move faster, his own nails digging into the skin of Mikoto’s hips, and it satisfies something within him to know that there will be marks on both of them later.

Mikoto’s movements stutter, and his voice is urgent when he says, “Reisi,” reaching for him and pulling him down. The kiss is all heat and greed and no finesse, and it fucks up the rhythm but it doesn’t matter because Mikoto’s coming, shuddering apart beneath and against him, and Munakata can feel the warmth of Mikoto’s release slick against his belly, and it’s all too much. Mikoto’s clenching around him and his mouth is moving insistently against his own, and his tenuous hold on his parody of self-control is instantly obliterated. 

Munakata comes hard, stars dancing behind his closed eyes as the pleasure courses through him and crashes over him in waves.

Mikoto’s fingertips are gliding gently over his skin when he manages to take a shaky breath; he’s coming down from his euphoric bliss and his muscles are protesting the exertion they’ve just been put through, albeit weakly. 

Eventually they disentangle themselves and they shower together, close but not quite touching. Munakata’s about to pull on his boxers and jeans, a lit cigarette between his lips, when Mikoto says, “You can stay, if you want.”

The redhead is lazily sprawled on the bed and the look in his eyes belies the easy, uncaring tone in his voice. How like him to make his own suggestion sound like Munakata’s idea.

“Maybe,” Munakata replies, giving up on getting dressed and flopping unceremoniously down on the bed beside Mikoto. 

Mikoto leans over him, reaching past him to put the cigarette out in the ashtray on the nightstand. He then proceeds to grab Munakata’s cigarette and put it out as well before curling against Munakata’s side.

The shift in their dynamic isn’t something that Munakata wants to look too closely at right now, so instead he simply rests there, Mikoto’s weight comfortable against him. He breathes him in like secondhand smoke, wonders what this particular addiction will do to him, and realizes with shocking clarity that he is looking forward to finding out.

~END~


End file.
